


Dark Side of the Moon

by Koyote19



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Challenge_duck, Dogs, Friendship, Gen, The Impala - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koyote19/pseuds/Koyote19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby, Dean, two dogs, beer and a wake for the Impala.</p>
<p>Written for the Challenge_duck prompt: Moon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Side of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written during the summer hiatus after Devil's Trap aired, when no one knew if the show was coming back, and the last images had been the smashed Impala with three bleeding Winchesters. Obviously, this became an AU when In My Time of Dying aired.

There were, Bobby reflected as he parked the battered tow truck in the yard and scowled sourly at the white orb rising over the edge of the trees, certain constants in his life that followed the full moon like a demented tide: an increase in demonic possessions, the occasional presence of werewolves in the rolling acres bordering his scrap yard, and the arrival of a Winchester. Bad months, and he’d had quite a few of those over the years, no doubt thanks to some higher power that he had obviously pissed off, brought the possibility of any two of those at once. Extremely bad months--and really, that had only happened the once but that meant precedence had been established--brought all three.

The yard was quiet. No movement along the tree-line, no sign of a black truck at the edge of the dirt drive; nothing appeared disturbed or deliberately vandalized. But he could feel tension in the air, and knew instinctively it was likely to be a bad moon kind of month. 

Schwarzkopf whined as he stepped wearily out of the truck, the grizzled mastiff raising his head in greeting, before standing up on the hood of the current bed of choice—a 1972 Plymouth Duster that had lost the battle with rust.

“What is it, boy?” He ruffled the short gold fur, watching as Schwarzkopf jumped stiffly to the ground and padded towards the barn, stopping only when he reached the end of the chain. The dog stared at the barn for a long moment, and then turned to whine in his direction pointedly. Well. That answered one question—this full moon had at least brought a Winchester.

Unsnapping the chain, he watched the dog bound towards the barn, the years melting away to leave the puppy he still remembered. Bobby debated following, then shook his head and started up the stairs to the porch instead. Some reunions ought to be private, and he had faith that Dean would find his way to the house eventually. 

An hour later, he sat on the porch in the moonlight, a beer warming slowly in one hand and shotgun in the other and watched the shadows. There had been no sound from the barn, not since the dog had vanished inside, and neither dog nor man had reappeared. He let his gazed drift back across the tree-line and simply waited.

The moon was nearly down when he gave up waiting. Grabbing another two beers from the fridge, he crossed the yard to the barn. It was dark inside, with the moonlight mostly blocked out, and only the soft glow of lantern light from the far corner.

Inside, the scene was pretty much what he’d expected. 

The crumpled bulk of the Impala glinted dully in the faint light, and even a month later, it hurt to see the damage. He still barely managed to look at her in full daylight; he couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for Dean to see her like this, only half visible in the dark but so obviously broken.

He let his eyes adjust to the dark, until he could see the still figures curled up to one side of the barn on a pile of old quilts and drop-cloths. Schwarzkopf raised his head at Bobby’s approach, but didn’t move. Dean lay with his head pillowed on one pale gold flank, the newest rottweiler puppy--Rumsfeld’s replacement--tucked carefully between stomach and hip. 

Shadowed eyes opened as he sat down nearby, though Dean only blinked silently at him. It was hardly the first evening spent in the barn, only the first with the Impala’s corpse sharing the space with them. Bobby shivered a little in the cold night air, and grumbled silently to himself that of course Dean had to hog all the blankets and both dogs. Not that he’d begrudge the younger man that this time, what with him being just barely on his feet again a month after the accident.

“Sam know you were planning on spending the night on the hard ground in a cold barn?” 

Dean’s lips curved in rueful amusement, but he still didn’t speak. That didn’t exactly surprise Bobby either. There was still a hell of a lot that Dean had never let his brother see, even if Sam had known to look for it.

“John still hasn’t woken up yet?”

His answer this time was a pained frown, followed by a faint headshake.

“You want a beer?” Bobby held up the two longnecks enticingly. “Or do the doctors still have you on too many pills to drink?”

“Never stopped me before,” Dean whispered, his voice still hoarse and almost too soft to hear. Bobby didn’t know if it was from the too many weeks of tubes down his throat while the doctors tried to keep him from bleeding out, or from the instinctive need to whisper in the presence of the dead. “But yeah, a beer would be good.”

”You eat anything yet today?” 

“Sam insisted. Or he wouldn’t bring me out here.”

“Alright then,” Bobby opened both beers, stretching across to hand one to Dean as the younger man unfolded slightly. “Where is Sam, anyway?”

“Heading for Lawrence again, back to see Missouri,” Dean shrugged, automatically soothing Schwarzkopf as the mastiff whined at the movement. “I… being back there, it’s always been harder on me than on Sam. I would only end up distracting them. And with you moving Dad to the VA hospital near here, figured one of us should be close in case Dad—. Anyway, Sam’s the one that needs her help. So.” The puppy tumbled away from his hip with a squeak, then scrambled over to collapse into unconsciousness pressed against the older dog’s shoulder instead. 

Bobby couldn’t quite hide his snort of amusement at that, especially at Schwarzkopf’s resigned growl.

“Not much of a watchdog yet,” Dean smiled slightly, running gentle fingers over the soft black fur before pulling the puppy back into his lap. “Sorry about Rumsfeld.”

“Yeah, well. Powell will get there. And Rumsfeld was kind of a sorry excuse for a watchdog too.”

Dean sat up a little more, moonlight seeping through the cracks in the barn loft to pool across his hip and shoulder, and took a long pull of the beer. “Good enough.”

“Yeah.” Bobby drank with him, wishing that he’d gotten around to installing a cooler in the barn if they were going to be having an impromptu wake in the middle of the night. Or that he’d thought to bring more beer with him. 

Probably just as well he hadn’t, he thought a moment later, as Dean coughed and curled up slightly, his arms cradled carefully across his chest. “You okay?”

“Just stiff.” Dean waved off the concern with a scowl, and took another long drink. 

“You sure you’re ready to be out of the hospital yet?”

“Man,” green eyes narrowed at him “don’t you start that shit too.”

“Just asking, boy. No need to get all testy.”

“I’m fine.” 

Bobby nodded, not pushing the lie that both of them could hear in Dean’s soft voice. They sat in comfortable, familiar silence. The moonlight was fading, and Bobby could barely see Dean in the darkness--silhouetted against lantern light. The younger man’s eyes were locked on the shattered bulk of the Impala. Bobby watched him silently, even in the dark seeing the changes that the encounter with the Demon left on his friend.

Dean had always been quiet, when it was just Bobby and the dogs, with no need for masks or the bright shell game he offered to the rest of the world. Now, he was so still he seemed almost invisible, just a phantom in the dark. Bobby wondered sometimes if John or Sam had ever really seen Dean, and not just what they needed to see occupying his space. Good son, good soldier, protector, father, mother, best friend… but never this, just the quiet, with the dogs and the moonlight.

“So’d you have any trouble with the cops? About Meg?”

“Nah.”

“Did you even call the cops? Or the Paramedics?”

Bobby hesitated, and then sighed. He hadn’t seen the question coming, but he should have. 

“Didn’t see much point, really. Nothing they could’ve done to save her by then, and you boys didn’t need them on your heels too.”

“So, she’s still here?”

“Up in the hills. I found a nice enough spot. Peaceful. Seemed like rest was what she needed most, after a year spent in thrall to a demon.”

“Marked?”

“Well enough.”

Dean nodded, and tilted his head down, stroking the puppy softly. “I should go there. Tomorrow. And then… maybe find out if she had family.”

“Give it a few days. She’s not going anywhere now.”

“Yeah--guess not.” Dean frowned at something Bobby couldn’t imagine, his fingers stilling on soft fur. “It was _his_ daughter, you know. In Meg.”

Oh. 

“I killed _his_ son too. In Jefferson City, when we found Dad.” 

“I’m thinking I see why Sam didn’t want to just leave you on your own, while he went to Missouri’s.”

“Yeah. He’s been up and around for a couple weeks now. Restless. But wouldn’t leave while I was still flat out in a hospital bed.”

“What about John?”

“Sam marked the room up pretty tight, with that Devil’s Trap. Seal of Solomon under the bed. Every charm he could remember from that book of yours. And a few I remembered from while he was at Stanford.”

“I don’t even want to ask how he managed that one, especially since I know John isn’t in a private room.” Bobby shook his head, but let the mention of what Dean had been up to while Sam was at Stanford pass. “Sam have the Colt too?”

There was a sudden stillness from Dean, and the space between them seemed to widen. 

“Why?”

“Because if your brother was really the target of that thing, he shouldn’t be out there with just Missouri for protection.” Bobby shrugged, keeping the movement casual. “She’s good with a spoon, but that _Demon_ … that’s a little out of even her league. He’s the one needing that gun right now.”

Dean suddenly slumped back against Schwarzkopf, the bottle of beer dropping from between his fingers as both hands slid up to cover his face. Even in the dark, Bobby could see him shaking.

“Bobby…”

“Dean. That thing was _in_ your Daddy. Don’t reckon you need to apologize for being paranoid, kiddo. Even of me.”

“Y-yeah.” 

“Now. You want another beer? Or do you think you could maybe sleep now?” Bobby stood up, feeling his bones creaking from just half an hour on the hard floor. 

“I think maybe bed sounds good.” Dean handed the sleeping puppy up to Bobby, before levering himself awkwardly off the floor. His hand came to rest on the trunk of the Impala, catching his balance as he stumbled, and for just a moment Bobby thought he would collapse across the remnants of his car. “Though I wouldn’t turn down another beer either. Maybe even some Tylenol.”

“I think I can manage both of those. You going to be able to walk to the house?”

“You offerin’ to carry me?” Dean glanced over one shoulder at him, and grinned a little for the first time since waking up in the hospital. “Old man?”

“Shut up, boy.” His expression softened for a moment, watching the hand caressing over battered metal. “She was a good car, Dean. Kept you boys and your daddy safe through a lot of years.”

“She was.” A last pat to the scarred black fender, before Dean turned away. “Come on, bed’s sounding better by the second.”

“Thought it might.” Bobby batted Schwarzkopf on the head, as the dog followed them to the house. Dean was swaying dangerously by the time they hit the porch, but Bobby knew better than to offer him help a second time. The fact that he’d even asked for painkillers was a strong enough indication of how poorly he was feeling, but they both knew even the Demon would be hard pressed to get any further admissions out of him now. 

Dean still raised one brow as Bobby, cradling the puppy to his chest, held the door open for the mastiff.

“In light of that new bit of information ‘bout the Demon having family, I’m thinking the dogs should be joining us in the house tonight too. Especially after Rumsfeld.”

Dean blinked, then nodded faintly. 

“Come on. A couple of hours of decent sleep, and you’ll be ready to start rebuilding that pile of scrap metal in my barn.”

“Thanks, Bobby. For everything.”

“Go on. I’ll lock the place down for the night.”

Dean nodded again, already stumbling through stacks of books towards the back of the house. Bobby let him go, turning back to the new door to lock it, ward it and replace the line of salt across the door. The moon was now out of sight beyond the trees, but he still had a bad feeling about what was coming. After all… the first night of the full moon had brought a Winchester. Things could only go downhill from there.

**Author's Note:**

> Looking back on it during season 10, it is kind of funny what I had guessed right on, and not. It was also originally intended to have a companion story, Comfortably Numb, which turned into a monster in the dark, and may or may not ever see the light of day. The hints of shared history between Bobby, Dean, Rumsfeld and Schwarzkopf came from that story. 
> 
> For those of you waiting for more In the Mouth of Madness, this is my attempt to jumpstart the muse again, after the horrible Christmas and New Years that threw all of my grand plans out the window, and then set them on fire.


End file.
